Roses
by israeli-american
Summary: Four times Narcissa recieved roses, each reflecting a different era of her life.
1. Pink Roses

_Pink Roses_

They filled her bedroom, teeming on her dresser, her wardrobe, her desk, her night-table, her bookshelves, her windowsill. When every single possible centimeter of space was covered with the beautiful flowers, they overflowed from her bedroom into the rest of the house, filling it with their heady scent. Enchanted to never fade, he had said, as his love for her never would.

She waited and waited for the color to begin to leave even one little rose, one little petal.

But the spell held through.

She is nineteen, and the roses are pink.

As he holds out the diamond ring, kneeling on the elaborate carpet of the parlor, she looks at the roses and makes her choice.

**a/n: Liked it? Hated it? Tell me! Seriously, please review...More chapters to follow.**

**Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. Its all the work of the great genius JK Rowling.**


	2. Red Roses

_Red Roses_

They rested clasped between her hands, trailing red and white ribbons and lace.

She had wanted white, yellow, pink, anything but red. He hadn't understood why. They had stood in the flower shop, suffocating in a sea of tulips and pansies and daisies, arguing. The shop owner had stood off to the corner, not knowing whether to intrude or not.

_Why don't you want red?_ He'd asked, exasperated._ It's a lovely color. The color of love and romance. Why not?_ She'd blushed and muttered something. He had taken that as her acceptance.

Which was why she had stood across from him, in front of a fat little Ministry wizard, she in white robes and he in black, the red roses in her hands.

What she hadn't told was that red wasn't a lovely color. It was the color of a fading handprint on a little girl's cheek. It was the color of blood dripping from Bella's hands after one of unexplained night jaunts. It was the color of a flower that Andi had treasured, a token of Ted's love.

She is twenty, and the roses are red.

As the dry voice of the Ministry wizard reaches her ears, and the ring, a band of pure gold, floods her vision, she looks at the roses and makes her choice.

**a/n: I was trying to get a bit more of Narcissa in this time, trying to understand her a little more. Anyway, please review, because reviews make me smile...**

**Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. Its all the work of the great genius JK Rowling.**


	3. Yellow Roses

_Yellow Roses_

They sat on the table, a gift to compensate for his long business trip. She did not know where he went on these trips, only that they were frequent and without warning. He placated her with mutters of "Ministry matters" and "Dreadfully boring". She swallowed those explanations, for all that they were falsehoods. She had long known of his allegiance to the Dark Lord.

Yet that time, she had dreaded his return. Dreaded having to meet his eyes. Dreaded having to tell him. To tell him of what she had discovered while he'd been gone. To tell him of what would change their lives. Of what she had cried the entire night over.

She looked away, away from his gaze, which felt prying and intrusive, though she knew it was not. Staring at the roses, she despaired. This was not the time to raise a child. Not with him only home half the time and with her so young. Not with the war raging around them, destroying everything and anything, the endless slaughter. Not with blood staining his hands and tears staining her cheeks.

She couldn't tell him.

But the bright, cheery yellow of the roses wouldn't leave her eyes, her mind. They were a lie, a dream, a fairytale, a promise of what was not there. Despite that, they resembled rays of sun, of hope, the hope of a new dawn.

He had taken her by the shoulder and given her a shake. She'd blinked, startled, and he grabbed her chin so that their eyes met. His voice had drifted to her ears, no longer smooth and silky but rough with fury and worry, demanding to know what was wrong, what had happened.

There had been no answer.

Desperation pumping through his voice, he had ordered her, as her husband, to tell him.

She is twenty-two, and the roses are yellow.

As his voice rages around her, his eyes as cold as the diamond on her finger, she looks at the roses and makes her choice.

**a/n: This one was tricky, it took me ages to figure out a stage/event in Narcissa and Lucius's relationship that I could associate with yellow roses. I like the way it came out, but I want to know if you do, so-review! Thanks!**


	4. White Roses

_White Roses_

He placed them on the grey marble headstone before him, directly across from the epitaph engraved elegantly on it. He looked at the name, the delicate loops and curls forming the letters that spelled out Narcissa Black. Beneath them was carved _Beloved_ _wife and mother_. The word _Mother_ brought tears to his eyes with a startling familiarity.

They remained there, staining his cheekbones with glistening streaks. He began to talk, his voice soft, low, gentle, yet there was no one there other than him. He spoke, and his words fell down like autumn leaves, sifting through the cold stone. He brought her news of his father. He was not well. He had been well since that dark, rain-soaked day. He told her of his job, of the days spent hunched over a small Ministry desk, sorting papers and filling out forms. He told her of everything, but his words masked his real reason for coming. He sighed as a breeze ruffled his hair. With it came the scent of the roses.

Her voice sounded in his mind, chiding._ Who is she?_ He grimaced, then said the word that always seemed to be on the tip of his tongue these days, pronouncing it with the uttermost care, letting it melt on his lips like an exquisite yet bittersweet chocolate. _Astoria,_ he had said, and his face glowed, _she's Astoria._

And then it had all exploded, overflowed, words that had been locked up in his heart to long spilling out in a cascade of hot tears. The sentences flowed and merged, fragmented, and a final, anguished cry:_How do I know that this is love?!_

He had fallen to the ground, arms draped on the grave. He had wept.

Slowly, his sobs ceased, the last traces of his tears shining on his cheeks.

Slowly, he raised his head, the sun burning his eyes.

Slowly, his mother's words reached him once more, and those words made the sunlight a blessing, not a curse. _You will simply know._

He thought of his mother, as white and cold as snow in death, and as separate from the world as it, too.

Of his father, bitter, wallowing in misery over dreams deferred.

He thought of new beginnings, of the beauty and delicacy of the color white, and of the perfection of dresses that color.

He is nineteen, and the roses are white.

As he rises from the hard, cold earth, the small velvet box a comforting reassurance in his pocket, he looks at the roses and makes his choice.

**a/n: This one took me ages to write, I wanted it to be perfect and then I had writer's block. Please, please, please review…thanks!**


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